But while Dad was home with us, things weren’t the same. Trust had been broken. Repair would take time and work.
One day Dad asked me to wash his car, the same Chevy Blazer that Mom had locked herself in. Life seemed like it was starting to heal itself. Dad had had the seats repaired by that point. “No problemo,” I said. Due to my allergies, my brother always mowed the grass, so I was glad to fulfill Dad’s request. He always did so much for us, so I wanted to demonstrate to my dad that I was developing into a hard worker and not just that kid who watched television all day long. After filling a plastic bucket with dish soap and a large sponge, I began to brush off the backseat. I couldn’t help recalling that day again, but I quickly put it out of my mind. As I looked at the mint-like condition of the car, it was possible to pretend nothing had ever happened. The shine had been restored.
All is good.
After washing the exterior, I got out the large industrial vacuum to clean the rugs and the mats. As I lifted the mat on the driver’s side, I found a white envelope underneath. Out of curiosity, I opened the envelope and pulled out a thick, nicely designed card. As I read it, I realized it wasn’t from Mom or one of his friends.
Two words jumped from the page: Love, Carolyn.
My mom’s American name was Debbie.
This was the woman Mom had talked about, the woman Dad had denied existed.
I quietly slid the card back into the envelope and finished up the last details of the wash. I slowly made my way back into my bedroom, my only retreat from the craziness unfolding in our family. Barely able to stand, I lay down in bed and wept, realizing Mom had been right all along. I kept repeating to myself:
How could my own father lie to me?
This unspoken thought began to grow in the darkness of my heart. I had no idea how it would soon become relentless in suffocating my inner thoughts. I could feel the negative emotion of my father’s betrayal grow in intensity inside me. Once again, my mind jumped to the idea that for a short-term sexual liaison and the attention of some woman he really didn’t know, he’d throw my mom and us under the bus.
I didn’t know how to handle this conflict inside of me. I never saw conflict resolution modeled. I just did what I always did: I buried his acts of injustice beneath the surface. If someone hurt me, my go-to response was the silent treatment, to become passive-aggressive. Since I was a kid, if I didn’t like what my parents asked me to do or if they offended me in some way, I simply refused to talk to them. I’d brood in my room for days, giving the silent treatment to whoever I was upset with.
I didn’t know how else to respond but to close the door to my father. It was a primal, instinctive thing to do to protect myself. He had lied to me, so I pushed him away.
After a couple of months, Dad stopped trying to work things out with Mom. He had enough. He once again started living somewhere else. Only my brother would visit him regularly. Doug and my father drew closer together during this time. In fact, Doug ended up becoming my dad’s best friend. I’m sure Doug struggled with staying close to both Dad and also to Mom, but for me, it was an easy choice. Dad’s relationship with Mom was finished, and I decided to be done with him, too. He couldn’t be trusted. All the good days with him prior to the Chevy days were forgotten.
Eventually, my dad had enough of my silence. He came to the house, where he was now a visitor. Dad looked at me with now aging eyes that had lost their glint. His wrinkles and the bags underneath his eyes were becoming more pronounced. He asked:
“Can I talk to you?”
Begrudgingly, I said, “Sure.”
After sitting down on the couch in the living room, he turned to me and asked, “Dave, why aren’t you talking to me?”
My eyes scanned the carpet below me; I still had a hard time looking at him. I glanced at him and then looked back down to the ground.
“You should know,” I tersely replied. “Isn’t it obvious?”
As I looked back at him, his expression told me he really didn’t know. Deep down I wanted him to confess what he had done, that he had lied to me, that yes, he did have an affair.
Come clean. Keep it real with me. I’m your son.
“Dave, I really don’t know.”
His sincerity only frustrated me more. He was eager to know why I was keeping a distance from him. I couldn’t believe he didn’t know. So, exasperated, I responded:
“Well, you remember the time you asked me to wash your Chevy Blazer? When I was cleaning under the driver’s side mat, there was an envelope. I opened up the card and saw the words ‘Love, Carolyn.’”
For several moments—an eternity inside me—a long pause hung between us.
Just say it. Own up to it.
My heart wanted him to apologize, to admit his wrongdoing and to break up with this woman he was having an affair with. To come back to Mom and all of us. To be a family under one roof again like we were in Maryland. Just own your wrong and let’s move on.
I wanted him to be the dad I knew growing up.
He took a deep breath.
“Well, everybody makes mistakes.”
“That’s not good enough,” I said tersely with complete disgust as I stood up and walked away.
I’m done with you.
I was convinced that this was a man who cared more about himself than his family. How could he act so irresponsibly? He wasn’t safe to me anymore. All the values he had spent years to instill in me now meant nothing. His God, his beliefs, his authority he had in my life—I could care less about them.
The whole Christianity thing became a farce. The leading example of a Christian was my father. Just as our home had collapsed, so did my faith. My faith in God and my faith in my dad.
And my mom? The pain I saw in her was so great that it looked like a thousand souls all at once crying out in anguish. Mom’s cries were not just those of one woman in her forties but the cries of a child with an alcoholic father and the grief of a young mom on the run, leaving an abusive partner and suddenly alone again. The demons from the past were crying out from her. It was a pain that went beyond my mom. Her despair sounded like the sorrow that came from generations of suffering. As Mom continued wailing, you could hear the cries of her siblings, her mom, her grandparents, and even the nation of Korea in her broken voice.
CHAPTER EIGHT 한 Han—a Collective Pain
Han is a concept that is deeply rooted in Koreans. It’s a complex array of emotions that deal with sorrow, injustice, resentment, hatred, and anger. Koreans have battled oppression and slavery from Japanese occupation, American imperialism, war, and other atrocities. Many of these memories are still fresh and embedded in the psyche and fabric of Korean culture.
Like the word “jeong,” I didn’t know this word, “han,” even existed till later in life. But I know han was embedded in every cell of my mom’s body.
In the weeks and months following the discovery of my dad’s affair, my mom still tried to win him back multiple times. She lost respect for herself and it felt like she was begging my father to return. Mom bought him things to try to woo him back. She would literally do anything possible to get him to come home.
At one point she had even tried to plead with my dad’s lover. Mom had little fear now. She found Carolyn’s phone number, called her, and started yelling at her.
